Bowdoin was once the scene of a curious social phenomenon that has befuddled the wisest of anthropologists for ages. I am of course referring to the "Bowdoin hello."
Legend has it that long ago, Bowdoin students once did freely—and frequently—acknowledge the existence of their peers and professors while navigating campus. The "hello" may just be a myth constructed by the Office of Admissions to lure unsuspecting students to the frostbitten wilderness of Maine. Nonetheless, the hello remains a noble social ideal, one toward which the College community should aspire. I call upon you, the students of this fair College, to resurrect the "Bowdoin hello."
While walking across campus, one is met with fruitful opportunities to meet other members of the community. Students, however, meet these accidental interactions not with joy, but with awkward dread. We seem to be offended by eye contact and fearful of verbal exchange. Over the years, students have developed a multitude of stratagems to avoid the "hello." These asocial tactics have become second nature for Bowdoin students, and the effect on our sense of community is corrosive.
The most common strategy is to avoid eye contact, preemptively avoiding any potential greetings. Students fix their eyes upon the ground as if they will stumble should they lift their gaze. Others prefer to stare across campus, pretending to be fascinated with something far more intriguing than any nearby pedestrians. Although students have become quite adept at ignoring each other on their own, the ubiquity of cell phones and music devices have raised the snub to new heights.
Indeed, I acknowledge that the daily walk to class presents an excellent opportunity to lay some text-game on that dime in your sociology class or to arrange the next beer run. All too often, however, cell phones are unsheathed not to advance romantic interests or to procure life's necessities, but to justify utter disregard for another person.
While cell phones contribute greatly to the neglect of the "Bowdoin hello," the iPod remains the more socially caustic of the two. Students meander across campus like joyless drones, marching to the rhythm of their own private tunes, oblivious to the concerns of their fellow humans. These students, who never sever their musical umbilical cords even for the briefest of campus treks, might as well have another set of speakers directed outwards. Rather than play music, these speakers would emit a Randy Nichols-style voice for potential interlocutors: "I have neither the means nor the will to hear your voice. Communication is futile." But, you say, music makes the journey more pleasurable and the iPodites are harmless...What'd you say? Sorry, I missed that last part. I was busy listening to Cudi.
Sitting here within the solipsistic cavern that is my carrel, I look out upon the campus from the third floor of Hawthorne-Longfellow Library. I see a child, perhaps seven years of age, excitedly pedaling his bicycle in front of Gibson Hall. Though he has scarcely outgrown the need of training wheels, this does not prevent him from risking a hearty wave and toothy grin to those who share his path. This child displays an enthusiasm for the "Bowdoin hello" that would put most students to shame.
The instinct behind the "hello" is natural. While certain environments strengthen friendly habits, others replace them with anti-social conventions. The urban center is in the latter camp. I am in agreement with Thomas Jefferson, who once likened cities to sores upon the human body.
Within the social chaos of metropolitan life, niceties such as the hello are condemned to irrelevance by the reality of a busy sidewalk. Millions of passing faces overwhelm the senses, and one becomes conditioned to disregard one's neighbors. Such habits may be vital to survival amid the pandemonium of the city, but when these customs migrate to a small college campus, they become the enemies of friendliness.
Yet the city did not kill the "Bowdoin hello." A mutant zombie hello has been cavorting about in its place, often taking the form of "How yah doin'?," "How are you?" and "What's up?" A more disingenuous greeting there is not. The inquiring pseudo-greeting baffles its target and is only met with a pre-programmed reply: "Good, 'n'you? Nothing much..."
These people who greet others with questions usually have no intention of sticking around for the answer, and probably didn't care what that answer was in the first place. Perhaps the insincere utterances that have supplanted the "hello" are better than silence, but unless you truly desire knowledge of how someone is doing or what is actually up, a simple "hi" and a gentle wave will suffice.
Today, some noble fellows from the Undiscussed will engage in a demonstration that will not go unnoticed. If you find yourself near the polar bear outside Smith Union this afternoon, you might just be confronted with a genuine "Bowdoin hello."
In 1906 Bowdoin's president, William DeWitt Hyde, wrote "The Offer of the College." Hyde believed Bowdoin students were offered a chance "to be at home in all lands...to make hosts of friends...to lose ourselves in generous enthusiasms." This is an offer, not a promise. The best four years of your life will not fall into your lap—they must be actively and vigorously worked for.
Achieving this ideal will require much more, but resurrecting the "Bowdoin hello" would be an excellent place to start.